


Red, Red Africa

by Anonymous



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 08:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20387059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He came to Africa because he was an idealist, back then. The thought he could help stop the worst from happening.





	Red, Red Africa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_a_huge_fan_of_coffee/gifts).

> This was supposed to be fairly short. It grew.

It was born out of the sins of this world.

Out of poverty, inequality and that desperate drive to survive whatever the cost, which humanity clings to so prolifically.

It started in North Sudan, but in less than a week there were clusters all over South and East Africa; clusters contained only by the terrain and distance.

It had a reproductive number of 148. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

He came to Africa because he was an idealist, back then. The thought he could help stop the worst from happening.

The whole continent – it was unthinkable, back then. And yet, by the time he landed in Addis Ababa, new clusters were just being identified in Jordan and Syria. 

* * *

His name is James Hawkinson, but everybody calls him Jim. He’s an expert on contagious diseases, with two PhDs in bioinformatics to show for it.

Mess of gorgeous, long hair the colour of the straw, pulled into a haphazard bun, eyes blue as the sky – a true descendant of his Viking ancestors.

He’s from Iceland, lending a cute little accent to his otherwise flawless English.

Ross gives him three days tops. 

* * *

His name is Captain Ross Poldark and he’s with the British Peacekeeping Corps, sent as a part of international effort to help ‘monitor the situation’, aka stop it spreading to our shores.

Dark, somewhat scruffy, eyes like whiskey and the sort of strong, long limbs that you’d want wrapped tight around you.

Originally from Ireland. They joke on that first day that they could have probably waved at each other across the water.

They don’t joke after that. 

* * *

“All I’m saying is that we’ve taken in an awful lot of civilians from the country. Harar has around 150 thousand inhabitants at the best of times, but the population has nearly doubled by now. We’ve established the perimeter, but even with the screening process in place, it would be madness to expect there to be no cases within the city.”

“So what would you rather do, Ross? Close the city gates and leave those poor unfortunates out there to fend for themselves?!” As usual, Dwight takes on the role of an angel sitting on Ross’ shoulder. The role of a devil Ross fulfils perfectly well himself.

“If it was to save 300 _thousand_ people – yes! And then I’d section the districts into units –“

“You know they’d find a way to get in. They always do. Besides, the road to Addis Ababa is still open – you’d cut us off from our supply lines.”

Dwight means his _medical_ supplies, but Jim is only half-listening, too busy tapping away at his laptop. It’s not looking good – even with big data servers, still hooked up via satellite links, it’s evolving faster than they can map its genetic structure. 

* * *

His name is Dwight Enys and he’s a military doctor with Ross’ Peacekeeping Corps.

He’s from Cornwall and he’s the only person in the whole city who’s even more of an idealist than Jim is. They get on great.

Dwight has been out in the field longer than anyone else Jim has met so far and the screening system was his idea.

Jim instinctively recognises in him a network of cracks that in time will become fractures.

Eventually, Dwight will need saving, but for now he goes on. 

* * *

Why Ross feels the need to bother him during his precious eight hours off duty is beyond Jim.

“If you only had ten words to describe why you’re here, what would you say?”

“I’m looking for the cure.” Jim only needs five.

“Isn’t there a whole international league of boffins doing the same from their cushy labs all over the globe?” Ross’ laughter is deep, rich and bright with brilliant sparks, setting off fires wherever they land.

Jim looks up in annoyance, disgruntled about the flames he’ll have to put out. “Not like this. They don’t get to work with real sample material; it changes too fast.”

“Ah. So you’re here because you like playing with fire.”

“Why are _you_ here?” Jim fires back instead of commenting.

“I thought I could help.”

“You want to help.”

“I do.”

“Fine. I need your blood.”

Ross blinks, but obediently starts rolling up his sleeve.

“No. Off. You’ll only constrict the flow.”

It’s a flimsy argument and they both know it. Ross would have had his blood taken for the medicals before.

He takes off his jacket all the same, leans forward, presenting the delicate network of his veins for Jim’s needles.

It shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does: antiseptic, a bit of cotton, press of fingers into Ross’ soft parts to find the vein. He doesn’t flinch when his skin is pierced, instead taking his time to study Jim’s face intently and up close.

“I’m not _that_ interesting,” Jim mutters, filling vial after vial, but Ross’ eyes beg to differ.

Still, he says nothing, not even when finally satisfied with his sacrifice of blood, Jim carefully removes the metal out of his flesh and presses a little furl of cotton over it. They don’t use words, but somehow it feels like an entire conversation passed between them.

“You’re welcome,” Ross tells him finally around a rueful smile, the sort that will emblaze itself on Jim’s heart for the rest of his days. And then he turns and leaves, taking his warmth and light away with him.

Three hours later the alarm is raised.

It’s Jim’s third day. 

* * *

He grabs his laptop, and as much bio material as he can get in a cooler.

“Get in the jeep!” Dwight hisses, dragging him outside, machine gun in his other hand.

Behind them, as they drive off, Ross’ company opens fire.

* * *

Initially they drive for Addis Ababa, but the fires visible in the distance make it clear that the city has fallen.

They turn North instead, for Dessie. 

* * *

Ross looks like he’s been through hell and the blood caking the left side of his face only magnifies that impression.

Next to him Dwight is patiently putting in the stitches, but his eyes look wilder than they did before.

“We did what we could, but it’s spreading,” is all Ross says. “Two days maximum.” 

* * *

Dessie, with its dramatic hills and mountainous terrain should be easier to defend. It’s more than the mud walls of Harar, anyway.

Jim is trying reverse transcriptase, but it will take time and tech that they don’t have. The local university lab is all he’s got access to.

“It’s like I’ve filled several bowls with chicken soup, set it outside and now I’m hoping that one of them will magically grow penicillin for me,” he tells Ross.

“Then what’s the point?”

“The retroviral code. If we get it right, it could be manufactured. Problem is, I don’t know of anyone else even trying. It’s a theoretical problem in the West.”

“And that’s why you’re here.”

“Yeah.”

Ross gives him a long, hard stare, but his fire is all subdued, down to glimmering embers.

“You shouldn’t have come.” 

* * *

Dessie falls almost exactly 48 hours later.

This time Jim is better at running. 

* * *

They’re not sure when the human front becomes fragmented, or how exactly they get separated, but after a while it’s just Ross’ company and a handful of scientists.

Cities are no longer safe; towns are risky. They resort to villages – the more remote, the better. And they monitor the roads, only choosing to defend the ones that are critical.

Some places are more lucky than others: there’s a small mountain valley in South Gondar where they manage to hole up for almost ten days.

Of course by then Africa is described not in clusters of infected, but in clusters of the living. 

* * *

Another place, another perimeter, a couple of generators hooked together. The satellite link keeps flickering in and out, but it’s there and Jim is backing up whatever he can.

Eastern Europe is falling, fast. The borders are closed, but it won’t stop it.

When the first screams erupt outside, Jim is just about coming to the realisation that his most promising strand is a dead end.

And there’s something else: the blood. The bloodwork isn’t quite right.

But he’s out of time. He instinctively grabs his samples and runs for the transport.

It’s much worse this time – several simultaneous flare ups inside the town itself. Within minutes they’re surrounded.

He catches Ross’ desperate eyes, when the Captain shouts: “Drive, drive, drive!” and uses high-calibre bullets to try and clear the path through the throng of the infected.

Shooting people goes against everything Ross stands for; every time he pulls the trigger he damns himself in his own eyes, and no number of saved souls can redeem him.

They pull down close to a third of his men before they’re through and two of their vehicles don’t make it out at all. 

* * *

“Tell me about your home.”

By now Ross has honed the art of co-existing in whatever passes for Jim’s lab to perfection: not getting in his way, but finding himself a spot to watch and talk as he works.

“There’s not much to tell: my house is by the sea, so the sound of waves crashing against the rocks is constant. We get quite a few seals and whales passing by. All my neighbours, without exception, are fishermen. Three of them are human, the rest have wings and feathers.”

It’s not quite the same blinding smile Jim saw all those weeks ago, but he takes his victories where he can get them.

“A bit of a change in scenery for you then.”

“You could say that. What about you?”

“I’ve got a bachelor pad in Chigwell, London. Ground floor flat. Eight by four garden. I’ve been promising myself for years that I’d do something about it.”

“Not really compatible with my loner lifestyle,” Jim tells him a’propos of nothing – he’s forgetting to guard his words. Frankly, what difference does it make?

“No, I suppose not,” Ross agrees, the same tired shadow of a smile crossing his face once more. “I’ve never liked it that much, anyway.”

He stops himself just short of suggesting that they could find somewhere else together.

It feels safe, because it’s purely theoretical; neither of them believes they’ll survive Africa. 

* * *

Jim is woken up by the sound of feeding – a steady squelch of arterial blood spraying the surroundings and a mindless drive of life re-programmed to feed on other life.

It must be just beyond the screen separating his bed from the next one within the warehouse they use as a temporary base.

It must be one of their own and how the _fuck_ none of them noticed?!

In that moment Jim has two options: raise an alarm and try to save as many as possible, but pay for it by becoming one of the monsters he so despises, or take his own life and slip away quietly before it can get to him.

It would have shocked him once; today that’s just Jim’s reality.

And then Ross appears out of the darkness, bringing with him a third option.

Shots erupt before Jim can make any conscious decision at all: Ross hauls him back and towards the door, but doesn’t stop shooting, or yelling for everyone to get out.

There’s agony in his eyes, when he shuts the door behind him, trapping the living and the infected alike.

And then nothing at all, when he pulls the safety pin off his grenade and tosses it inside, others following in his suit. 

* * *

“Ross.”

“No.”

“You had to!”

“I said: no!”

“Within less than 10 minutes they would have all been infected.”

“_Fuck!_”

“Ross, God damn it, I need you _sane_!”

Ross moves fast as a lightening, his forearm pressed into Jim’s windpipe and cutting off his air supply.

“Shut up Jim, just _shut up_!”

“Let him go, Ross.” Dwight’s voice is only quiet, his fractures now turned into open canyons between sharp cliffs. “He’s still alive.” 

* * *

It’s the heat.

The heat and the clammy, choking air, the pillars of smoke in the distance and the constant danger.

These are Jim’s excuses, as he slips into Ross’ room.

They don’t talk, but they ask forgiveness in other ways: with their hands, their lips, the slow movements of their bodies.

He takes Ross first, just to bring him back and because he needs it. He takes his time out of sheer spite, because they don’t have any, and makes him fall apart with unerring thrusts, uncompromising and unrelenting, for longer than feels comfortable, until he’s reduced him to soft, mewling sounds he never thought the man capable of.

Because that’s what Jim wants to do to him.

But Ross doesn’t ask him to stop, doesn’t ask for mercy, not even after he comes.

And then it’s Jim’s turn and he was right about the sheer power of those arms as he’s manhandled into position and thoroughly prepared. Which is just as well because Ross fucks like a man possessed, as if he has too much life in him and has to share it with someone to survive.

He rides it all out, loud and unashamed, giving himself over to the intensity that consumes him.

It’s the most alive he’s ever felt. 

* * *

“Tell me it was worth it. Tell me something good will come out of it yet.”

Ross is on his knees and Jim is his god.

But if he is to hold that sort of power, Jim wants to be an honest deity; he respects Ross too much to be anything else.

“I don’t know. I just _don’t know_ yet. But so long as someone is fighting, there’s always a chance, right?”

Ross bows his head and takes his truth, but whether it’s with resignation, supplication or gratitude, his god can’t tell. 

* * *

Their last stand comes to pass in a rock-carved church of Lalibela.

Seems fitting somehow that Ross would lay his life down on the altar.

The infected get in through the tunnels. Tunnels none of them were aware of, until the monsters started crawling out the back.

They’re down to twenty men now, Ross, Dwight and Jim included.

“Through the front entrance, take the jeep. I’ll cover you.” Ross’ hands are steady for once, as he loads another mag.

“Ross, no! Don’t you dare –“

“I’m done, Jim. I don’t want to run anymore.”

Movement, shots, agony and regret. Dwight hauling him away with all his strength.

And Ross: eyes almost green with fury, as he pulls the massive, wooden gates closed behind them, as he slowly disappears from view inside the darkness of the church. He’s never looked more beautiful than in that moment.

Jim pulls Dwight’s own gun on him. “We’re going back for him.”

“Shoot me then and go.” Dwight is too calm to be considered sane in that moment. “But decide right now, because in a minute or two he will start screaming as they rip him apart and you will never _ever_ forget that sound. And we’ll both be dead.”

It’s the screams he runs away from, and the sheer fucking pointlessness of the situation, but in the end none of it makes any difference. 

* * *

It’s Dwight that saves his life.

Once they’ve crossed the mountains to the East, the terrain turns so empty and desolate that most of the infected they come across are too weak to chase after them.

He helicopters out of Djibouti.

Jim doesn’t return to Iceland. Iceland, which being an island and under strict quarantine laws, is one of the safest places in the world.

He flies himself to Atlanta instead and buries himself in his work out of sheer vengance. 

* * *

Jim was right: there _was_ something wrong with the bloodwork.

Next to him, sitting innocently on top of his desk is a blood sample, labelled: Captain Ross Poldark.

It’s one of the two: coincidence would have it that through all the narrow escapes he’s always somehow managed to reach for them.

_Tell me that it was worth it,_ flashes in Jim’s mind, as he stares at the screen of his battered, old laptop, where everything that Ross was, all the bright smiles and passion of his soul is now translated into neat lines of his genetic code. 

* * *

Ross finds him nearly two weeks later.

He simply steps out of the darkness outside the lab, just like he simply stepped into the darkness of an Ethiopian rock-carved church.

Jim starts to tremble – faced with death wearing a form of the man he loved, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Another continent doomed.

Ross doesn’t say anything. Instead he reaches for Jim’s hand and carefully presses his fingertips against his own neck.

There’s nothing; nothing at all, not even when Jim adjusts the position.

“You couldn’t have survived,” he whispers as cold dread starts flooding his veins.

“I couldn’t,” Ross agrees quietly.

“How did you get out?”

“I ate them all. And then I climbed out over the corpses.”

Jim swallows dryly.

“Turns out they don’t check your pulse when you board a plane. They don’t run blood tests in quarantine any more, only watch to see who will go crazy inside 5 days. They don’t disable your network access when you’re presumed dead, either.”

“The bloodwork. Yours was –“

“Mhmm. Something’s different, isn’t it? It’s in me, I can feel it. But I’m here for now.”

“Ross. I –“

“No, nothing’s changed. I died in that church.” There’s a shadow of a smile. “Now ask me.”

For a moment Jim considers the risks, but he knows what he has to do all the same.

“Fine. I need your blood.”

* * *


End file.
